


Amo

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post ILY Scene, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 07:32:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9538016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Days after that fateful phone call, Molly comes home from work to find Sherlock in her flat, where he confesses a secret to her.





	

She could hear music. Molly breathed in, her fingertips settling on the door handle to her flat, her lips parting slightly as she listened. She knew that melody could only come from one person.

The door was unlocked and it swung inwards with a gentle creak. She’d given Sherlock the spare key long ago, but it had been months since he’d come here. Why was he here now?

The music grew louder. Closing the door behind her, Molly crept into the living room. Sherlock was playing the violin, his back to her and the hem of his coat swishing as he swayed in time to the music. Molly was about say hello, but the word died on her tongue when she saw his eyes were closed. Knowing it was better not to disturb him, she dumped her heavy bag on the couch with a sigh, kicked off her shoes and went to her bedroom to get changed. Toby was sleeping on her bed, and she absently scratched his ears. She came out in pyjamas and a dressing gown and walked into the kitchen, rubbing her neck and shoulders.

She found herself lilting to the melody as she washed and cut up vegetables for dinner. She entered a sort of meditative state of reflection, consumed by her own thoughts, and did not notice when the song faded.

‘What did you think?’

Molly jumped at the voice. Sherlock was standing to attention before her, his back ramrod straight, the violin and bow balanced at his side as carefully as if they were loaded weapons.

‘It’s beautiful,’ Molly said. ‘But it was… sad, too. Is it new?’

‘It’s something I’m composing for Eurus.'

The East wind. A chill passed over Molly. ‘Why?’

‘Because my parents want to see their daughter. Because I think this might help her.’

‘That’s awfully…’

‘Nice?’ Sherlock suggested. ‘I know. Sickening, isn’t it?’

Silence fell, interrupted by the distant ticking of the hall clock.

‘Are you sure it’s a good idea to see her?’ Molly asked as she peeled a carrot.

‘She can’t hurt me now,’ Sherlock said. There was a pause, and he added quietly, ‘or you.’

Molly wet her lips. Better address the elephant in the room sooner or later. ‘John – erm, John explained everything that happened. About the phone call and why you said… what you said.’

‘Yes; I know. I asked him to.’

‘You might’ve told me yourself. I understand, Sherlock.’

'Yes.' He tapped his thigh with his free hand and shifted awkwardly. ‘Do you want to get chips?’ he asked.

‘What?’

‘Chips. Do you want chips?’ 

‘I’m making dinner.’

‘True, but it's late, and you're tired. And in my experience, chips tend to be a great help.’

‘With what?’

Sherlock took a step forward. She flinched back. She couldn’t bear the weight of his eyes, the way he read her like a body at a crime scene. As gently as he could, Sherlock rolled out his analysis.

‘Lonely,’ he said. ‘Muscle strain. Increased cortisol levels. A slight tremor to your dominant hand. Dark circles under your eyes, suggesting you’re having trouble sleeping. Taking unusual amounts of time off a job you love so you can stay at home and…’

He looked around her flat. She ordinarily kept it in immaculate condition, a hangover from the need to keep her workplace tidy and sterile at all times, but it was looking just a little shabby now. An ordinary person wouldn’t think it strange, but Sherlock…

‘All the signs are there,’ he went on.

‘I’m not suicidal, if that’s what you’re saying,’ Molly said defensively.

‘Nor am I,’ Sherlock agreed. ‘But I think we should get chips all the same.’

‘Why are you here, Sherlock?’ Molly asked, suddenly too tired to put up with his probing.

‘I’m here… because I don’t think either of us ought to be alone right now.’

Molly squinted at him, and saw that behind that soldier’s pose was a profoundly injured man, one still suffering from the after-effects of torture.

She threw a potato at him. His free hand shot up and plucked it out of the air before it connected with his face. He frowned. ‘What?’

‘You want chips? Let’s make them.’

Sherlock delicately turned the potato over in his hand, examining it like it was some sort of curious fossil. ‘Cooking’s not really my area.’

‘Then now’s the time to start.' She pulled out a knife and a peeler and set them on the bench. ‘You’ll like it, I promise. It’s just like chemistry, working out the right combinations and the right quantities to get the perfect effect.’

Sherlock huffed. ‘That’s a poor comparison.’

‘Are you going to help me or not?’

Sherlock’s mouth hardened into a grim line. He put away his violin, then joined her in the kitchen.

‘Sweet potato?’ Sherlock said dubiously as Molly peeled the vegetable.

‘You’ve never had sweet potato chips?’

‘Not that I can recall.’

He peeled the ordinary potatoes she set out for him with some vigour.

‘I – um.’ Sherlock’s Adam’s apple wobbled slightly. ‘I suppose I should tell you. I could see into your flat.’

‘What?’

‘The phone call. Eurus. I could see you. You were standing here when it happened.’

Molly dropped her knife with a clatter. ‘She had _cameras_ in my flat?’

‘Yes.’

'John might've mentioned...'

Sherlock bent over slightly, and studied the potato in his hand as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. 

‘I removed all the cameras for you. Hidden in the air vents. Not hard to find, once you know what you’re looking for.’ 

‘How long?’

‘Hm?’

‘How long have they been there?’ she demanded. ‘How long was I being spied on?’ 

He winced. ‘A few months.’ He hurried to speak over her horrified cry, ‘but I doubt you were being watched the whole time. The cameras are remote-activated. They can be turned on and off. It’s possible Eurus installed them and only turned them on during our game.’

Molly’s right hand was trembling badly. She sniffed, and suddenly felt horribly violated.

'It’s also possible,’ Sherlock conceded with a grimace, ‘that she spied on you on a number of occasions. To work out how best to use you as a pressure point.’

‘Will you stop talking about it like that!’ Molly burst out. ‘Game, pressure point – I’m not a pawn! Don’t you have any idea how _awful_ this feels, to know I was so exposed!’

She put one arm around her waist and hugged herself. 

‘I am sorry,’ Sherlock said, and the contrition in his voice told her he was sincere. ‘You know I didn't want you to get hurt.’

‘You say that, and yet you hurt me an awful lot,’ Molly snapped. She breathed in. ‘Where?’

He hesitated.

‘The cameras. Where?’

‘One in every room, then three in the kitchen and three in your bedroom. I suppose because you use those rooms the most.’

‘Even the bathroom?’

‘Yes.’

She couldn’t take any more. She walked out of the kitchen and into the living room, where she stood facing the mantel with her arms crossed over herself.

‘If it makes you feel any better, Eurus doesn’t care about those things. She’d find no pleasure in watching you take a shower or anything like that. I mean, to her, you were little more than an experiment.’

‘Shut up,’ Molly said in a low voice. ‘Just… stop talking.’

She was staring at what looked like a vase. Behind it was an embroidered piece of Latin verse in a frame.  _Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus..._

‘It’s revolting,’ she said with a shudder, ‘to think I was being watched all that time. In this place - my flat, my place, where I always thought I was safe.’

Sherlock was silent. Toby slunk into the room and began to twine himself around Molly's legs. 

‘You never asked,' she went on, 'how I was able to afford this flat. This huge flat in London. I suppose I assumed you’d worked it out. Have you?’

Sherlock realised that the pretty vase in front of her was, in fact, an urn. 

‘Your father,’ he said softly.

She nodded. She could practically hear the crackle of his brain's electrochemistry as he focused on the task.

‘An inheritance,’ Sherlock said. ‘You’re an only child, from a small family. You had a sister, once, but she died when you were very young, and that made you your parents’ whole world. Your mother and father were both academics. Both doctors. They saved up all the money they could to give you a good education. Your mother died when you were a teenager. Your father doubled his efforts to raise money for you, put you through the best school, and the best university. You graduated top of your class and began full-time work. And then your father got sick.’

A tear dripped down her cheek.

‘He left his fortune to you. And you chose to invest in this house.’

‘You’re missing something.’

There was a synaptic misfire, and he flinched. ‘What?’

‘Even with my father’s money, a flat in inner-city London wouldn’t be in my price range.’ She turned to him. ‘Go on. I want to see if you remember.’

_Remember._

He struggled with the word for a moment, and three lines corrugated his brow. Then his forehead smoothed and softened.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘One of my early cases. Before I met John. The Velveteen Murderer.’

‘This was the murderer’s house,’ Molly said, gesturing around with a smile. ‘I thought you might've recognised it, but I guess you never actually visited his house. No-one wanted it once he was arrested, so I snapped it up for a bargain. That case – it was in the papers. It was where I first heard your name. Sherlock Holmes, I thought. He must be a great man. Imagine my surprise when I first saw you at Bart’s.’ 

‘Was I everything you imagined?’

 She wrinkled her nose.

‘No?’

She shook her head. A tiny smile formed on her face and Sherlock let out a short chuckle.

‘No, I suppose I wasn’t. It must have been quite disappointing.’

‘I never said that.’ She chewed her bottom lip. 'Are you sure you got all the cameras out?' 

‘Quite sure. And I've devised a foolproof system to ensure there can be no further break-ins.’

'Foolproof is one thing, but what about Eurus-proof?'

'That too.'

‘Good. Okay.’

They walked back into the kitchen together and sliced up the potatoes.

‘I know you must feel violated,’ Sherlock said. ‘I felt the same way, navigating Eurus’ maze like a lab rat. Observed from above, treated as a scientific curiosity instead of a person.’ He exhaled ruefully. ‘Believe me when I say I didn’t want to hurt you.’

‘It’s all right, Sherlock. I understand.’

‘Good.’ He glanced at her knife work. ‘You should probably try to cut the potatoes a little more carefully. They won't cook properly with such an uneven surface area.'

Molly threw the potato skins at him. 

 *

Some time later, they sat on the living room floor together eating chips, Toby having taken possession of the couch, and the dining room table being too formal for their liking.

‘I hate to say this, but you were right about the sweet potato,’ Sherlock said.

‘Don’t eat them all,’ Molly said in an amused voice as she filched some from him. ‘You’ve got quite an appetite tonight.’

‘Turns out I may have forgotten to eat, recently.’ He glanced at his violin. ‘Other things on my mind.’

‘Demons to exorcise?’

‘An apt way of putting it.’ He gestured at the framed Latin verse he’d noticed before. ‘That, there on the mantel. What is that?’

‘It’s a Latin poem,’ Molly said. ‘Catullus 5. Surely you remember it from your posh public school days?’ 

‘I’m afraid I’ve blacked most of those out.’

‘It was dad’s favourite,’ Molly said. ‘Mum made that embroidery for him before she died. She loved to sew.’

‘What does it mean?’

Molly put her plate aside and contemplatively sucked the salt and oil off her thumb. ‘It’s a poem written by a lover to his mistress. It says - and I'm paraphrasing here - it says we should live, and we should love, and not care what others think, but share hundreds and thousands of kisses. Suns may rise and set, but for us, once our brief light has vanished, we have only one eternal night for sleeping. So kiss me, so many times that we cannot keep count, while we still can.’

A faint rosy blush settled over her cheeks.

‘We should live and love,’ he repeated.

‘ _Vivamus atque amemus,’_ Molly translated.

‘Amo,’ Sherlock said softly, a flicker going over his brow.

‘Your Latin must be coming back.’

‘Do you speak it?’

‘Sort of. I never learned formally, but – well, with scientific names and anatomy, Latin just kept coming up. It was like a song I kept hearing. Got stuck in my head, so I picked up a grammar book to make sense of it, and I learned it that way. Same with Greek…’

She trailed off. Sherlock stacked his empty plate on hers and wiped his hands.

‘And that's your father’s urn?’ he asked.

Molly nodded. ‘I like to keep him with me. People think it’s creepy that I do. They think it’s even creepier that I bought a murderer’s house for a bargain. It was an awkward housewarming.’ 

She tried to smile, but a note of pain lilted in her voice.

‘It’s just - such a big house,’ she explained. ‘And I was never used to living alone. Most of the furnishings in the house come from our old place. I like to imagine my family’s here, with me. Is that strange?’

‘No, but this is coming from a man who keeps thumbs in his fridge.’

Molly giggled. ‘I don’t understand the squeamishness about death, really. It happens to everyone. And I think it’s nice to keep old memories alive, once people have passed on. To keep them in your heart. There’s something beautiful and tragic about a dead body.’ 

‘I sometimes think that disgust over death is nothing more than an attempt to deny the fact of one’s own mortality.’

‘When you think about it, our cultural attitudes towards death are really what’s anomalous. A hundred, two hundred years ago, death pervaded the daily experience. People died at home. People washed and wrapped their own loved ones in shrouds. It was common for women to die in childbirth, for parents to lose half of their children before their fifth year of life. Now people are living longer. Birth generally doesn’t carry the threat of death. People die in hospitals, out of sight, out of mind. It’s pushed to edges of our thoughts, and we can ignore the reality. The dead body becomes a monstrous aberration. A monstrous, scary thing in its own right that we simply can't deal with…’

She noticed Sherlock was growing agitated.

‘Working so closely with death makes me appreciate life,’ she concluded, folding her hands into her lap. ‘I wish more people would understand that, instead of recoiling when I tell them what I do.’ 

‘But there is... no denying that it can be horrendously ugly, sometimes.’

‘The more gruesome the murder, the more excited you seem to get,’ Molly remarked dryly.

‘It’s when it’s personal that it’s at its ugliest.’

‘I always like thinking of the way we associate beautiful things with death,’ Molly said, with characteristic cheerfulness. ‘Flowers, for instance. Fragrant oils. Shrouds. Yew trees and tall conifers in graveyards, to make us think of the immortal soul ascending to heaven. The butterfly – _psyche_ , in Greek – that was thought to represent man’s breath, his soul leaving the body. When this terrible thing happens, we find ways to make it beautiful, and honour the cherished memories the person left behind.’

Sherlock said nothing, so she continued. 

‘Some think it’s strange that I work in this field. They always seem to think I’m too cheerful, too colourful – like they expect me to look ghoulish or something – but this is how many different cultures have approached death. With colour, flowers, fruit, and beautiful epitaphs. Because burials aren’t really about the dead. They’re about the living.’

Sherlock was staring at the floor, and seemed to contemplate the universe in the floorboards stretched before him.

 'You’re looking rather grave there, Sherlock,’ Molly joked. She let out a short chuckle, then bit her lip. ‘Sorry.’

‘Did John tell you about the coffin?’

 ‘Oh.’ She blinked. ‘You mean with – with Eurus?’

‘Did he tell you what was written on the coffin?’

‘No. He just said it was my coffin – my name?’ she guessed.

‘There were three words.’

She understood. ‘Oh.’

‘A beautiful epitaph.’ His hand shook slightly and he bunched it into a fist. ‘Eurus made me think those words were for me. But the dead typically don’t write their own epitaphs.’ 

He lifted his eyes and gazed into her own. 

‘Burials are about those left behind.’

Before Molly could reply, Sherlock rose to his feet and ran his hand through his hair with a sigh.

‘John might have explained what happened. But I think he left out the emotional context.' He rubbed his temple and grimaced. 'One thing, Molly – your death would not be beautiful. It would be a tragedy.'

He trudged away.

‘Where are you going?’ Molly asked.

‘Bed.’

‘My bed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh.’ She stood up. ‘I’d prefer to sleep in my own bed tonight.’ 

‘Good. We can share.’

‘What?’

‘You don’t object, do you?’

‘Can’t you just use the spare room?’

‘I would prefer not to.’

Sherlock walked into Molly’s bedroom. It was markedly different from the rest of the house. The rest had been preserved in pristine condition, as if it were a display home, dressed in the furninshings preserved from her parents’ house. But her bedroom – _her_ room – it was patently, obviously hers, from the pink and yellow walls to the pastel bedspread, the posters and glow-in-the-dark stars, the teddy bears and doll house, the closet bursting with bright clothes, the flowers and butterflies on the walls that she had painted herself, the model skeleton and anatomy doll in the corner, the lab coat still with spatters of blood on it. The room was indelibly stained with her own self. It even smelled of her.

Molly walked in behind him. 

‘Did you ever wonder why I preferred to sleep in this room?’

‘More space?’ Molly said feebly.

‘In your palatial apartment?’ Sherlock replied, raising an eyebrow. ‘No. It’s because this was the only room I felt comfortable in. The rest of the house…’ He paused and ran his hand over the wooden table. He found the hand-painted doll’s house accessories and smoothed his fingertip over the articles. ‘You live as if there are others here. This huge house, and you confine yourself to this room, leaving the others for the dead – for mother, father, sister. It’s only in this room that I feel you – that I feel you are alive.’

Sherlock turned to her. ‘You live your life among the dead. At work, talking to the corpses on the slab. At home, with a family that’s long gone. Alone. And then… Eurus showed me a vision of your death. The small, practical coffin you would rot in, and the epitaph I would write for you. And I…' 

It was suddenly too much. He squeezed his eyes shut, and could hear his sister’s voice.

_So many complicated little emotions, I lost count…_

He reached out blindly, and found her hand. She wormed her fingers free, ran her hand up his arm, and when she grew close he pulled her violently into his embrace. The shock of it knocked the wind from her lungs, but she held him just as tightly.

‘I’m alive, Sherlock,’ she whispered. She began breathing heavily. He could feel the rise and fall of her ribcage and prominent collarbones. Before he knew what he was doing, he was kissing her, over and over, until he lost count.

When he released her, his cheek was wet. She swallowed hard, catching her breath.

'Sherlock...'

Panting, she tugged at the cord around her waist and watched his reaction carefully as she shrugged off her dressing gown. She was wearing a plain black nightie underneath - not particularly sexy, but it showed off her white arms and legs, the painterly swell of her bosom and her elegant neck.

Taking one hand, she placed it on her waist. 

‘You’re trembling,' Sherlock said, flattening his palm against her back. 'Are you scared?’

She nodded once. 

‘Why?’

‘I’m afraid of you – seeing me.’

He ran his hand up her arm and she broke out in goosebumps.

‘You see so much,’ Molly went on. ‘You – you _cut_ sometimes, when you look at me. Then, other times, it’s like I’m not there at all, and I don’t know which is worse. Dissection, or non-existence, in your eyes’

‘You think it’s any easier for me, when you look at me like I’m a corpse on a slab? When you see straight through me - bone, blood, flesh, organs, all?’

‘If you took care of yourself, I would _have_ to look at you like that,’ Molly said sharply, her eyes flashing. ‘For God’s sake, you say it hurt to be confronted with a vision of my death, what do you think it’s been like for me, watching you kill yourself, one injection, one stupid, thrill-seeking game at a time?’

At last, Sherlock comprehended. His mouth went dry. ‘Forgive me.’ 

‘No. No I _don’t_ forgive you. Not for that.’

She pulled out of his grip and sat on the bed, frowning in thought. Sherlock joined her.

‘Would you like me to tell you what I see?’

There was a lump in her throat that prevented her from replying. Sherlock grasped her hand and ran his thumb contemplatively back and forth over it as he surveyed her.

‘I see a woman who has suffered great loss. I see a woman with a physically demanding job. Surprisingly strong, for such a small frame. A woman practical about death. Who makes friends easily, but struggles to keep them once they become acquainted with the nature of her work.’

He brushed her forehead, moving aside the hair to find a small scar.

‘A smart woman. Easily the best pathologist in Britain. You like visiting the beach, when you can, and reading in your spare time’ He drew her arm upwards and pressed his nose to her wrist and inner forearm. ‘You wear an oil-based perfume to disguise the smell of the preservatives and alcohol-based disinifectants commonly used in your profession. It works, but formaldehyde and formic acid are especially tenacious, and linger under the cloying smell of roses.’

He moved upwards and printed a scarcely perceptible kiss to her arm.

‘There’s a history of breast cancer in your family,’ he said. ‘It’s how your mother died - and an aunt, too. You wear a natural deodorant because you heard that anti-perspirants which contain aluminium can be carcinogenic. Death doesn’t frighten you, but the version of death that took your mother – that slow, lingering, wasting death, a ravaging disease with no cure - _that_ scares you. A beautiful death requires a beautiful life, and there was no beauty in that.’

Tears pricked Molly’s eyes.

‘Now.’ Sherlock leaned back. ‘Tell me what you see, when you look at me.’ 

‘I see...' She shook her head with a sigh. 'I see straight through you. Past that big coat and the mask of emotionless detective. And I see a little boy, frightened. I see someone smart - brilliant - and someone who could be good, if he chose. You like your coffee black, with two sugars. You love chips and you've got a big sweet tooth. You're a musician,' she took his hand and turned it over, 'with all the characteristic calluses of someone who plays the violin. You love dogs. Cats - not so much, but there's one fat tomcat who's growing on you.' She picked three ginger cat hairs off his sleeve and continued, 'I see someone who loves his family – parents, brother - even his sister. Who loves his friend John Watson, and his god-daughter Rosie, and Greg and Mrs Hudson and…’ 

She froze. Her eyes became fractured by water, and she sucked in a breath.

‘And?’ Sherlock murmured.

Molly shook her head, and would not continue.

‘My turn, then. I see a woman with a lot of love in her heart. Who always treats others kindly because she knows what it means to suffer. Who longs for a family. I see a woman who, unaccountably, loves me.’

It hurt. Why did it hurt so much to hear him say that?

‘Now, what were you going to say?’

‘I see…’ Molly faltered. ‘I see that…’

Sherlock waited patiently. In his anticipation, he grew slightly jittery. Molly swallowed, and her mouth formed the words.

‘You love me.’

Sherlock exhaled slowly. He was shaking, just a little bit.

‘I never...' he paused, frowned, and tried again, 'I never understood the expression, “falling in love.” It sounded so… accidental. So clumsy. Dangerous, even. Painful. Standing on the precipice, with the abyss before you. Fall, just fall, they say. There's nothing easier than falling. But they're wrong. Falling is the hardest thing in the world. It is... terrifying - to feel -'

‘Sherlock,’ Molly cut him off, and he felt a little hand touch his cheek. ‘It’s okay.’ 

He looked into her soft brown eyes and exhaled. Covering her hand with his own, he steadied himself.

Slowly, Molly leaned in. She kissed him on the lips, warmly, chastely, and whispered a single word to him.

_‘Fall.’_

He did. She dropped back against the mattress and he fell with her. He returned her kiss hungrily, and ran his hands over her body.

He should have known she’d catch him.

 * 

Molly wished she could have gone to sleep afterwards. She wished it could have been like in the movies, where they drifted off in each other’s arms and woke to a perfect new day, with no memory of the awkward intervening hours. But Sherlock was restless, and left the bed soon after, and she was too full of thoughts and unspoken feelings to stay put.

‘A cigarette? Really?’ Molly said as she walked into the living room.

Sherlock was by the open kitchen window, bathed in glassy moonlight. He exhaled a cloud, and it drifted into the breeze.

‘Isn’t it traditional?’ Sherlock said with a smile. 

‘You know I don’t allow smoking in my house.’

‘Yes, that’s why I tried to do it discreetly.’

He stubbed the cigarette out on the sink and waved his hand to dissipate the lingering tendrils of smoke. Molly folded herself onto her couch and propped her chin thoughtfully on her palm as she looked at him.

‘I don’t know how you can smoke,’ she said, wrinkling her nose. ‘You must've seen a smoker’s lungs before. All black and shrivelled. You can practically squeeze the tar out of some of them.'

‘A perfectly disgusting habit,’ Sherlock agreed. ‘As of now, I quit.’

‘I’ve heard those promises before.’

He joined her in the living room. He’d put trousers on, but his chest was bare, and ghostly white, like gleaming alabaster, complete with chinks, flaws and scars that one might expect to see in carved stone. He sat beside her, placed his arm around her shoulders, and drew her over to cuddle against him. With one finger, she traced the bullet hole that had so nearly missed his heart.

‘How are you feeling?’ Sherlock asked. With her ear pressed to his chest she could feel the deep rumble of his voice.

‘Good. Erm. It was nice,’ she said.

‘Just nice? I thought it was better than that.’

‘Really nice,’ Molly said with a small laugh.

‘Better.’

‘But. Erm, there’s something I should tell you.’

‘What?’ 

‘I want a baby.’ 

‘You’ve got a god-daughter, isn’t that enough?’

‘It’s my god-daughter that made me realise I wanted more. It’s one of the reasons I’ve been so… under the weather lately.’

‘Because you want a baby?’

‘Because I want a family.’ Her eyes crinkled. ‘Because I gave up Tom - my best chance of having a family – all because I couldn’t - let go of…’

‘You already have a family,’ Sherlock said impatiently. ‘John and I, and Rosie, and Mrs Hudson.’

‘Don’t you _dare_ say that after the way you and John treated me these past few months,’ Molly said, starting up. ‘Mary was my friend as much as yours, and I mourned her, and I know you were mourning too, but _neither_ of you…’

She fell silent. She grew rigid, and wiped her cheeks.

‘What I’m trying to say,’ Molly said, shuddering slightly, ‘is that – I know you won’t be able to give me what I want.’

‘A baby?’

‘I know you don’t do the whole relationship and babies thing. I know you don’t want what I want, and -’ 

‘You don’t know what I want.’

His voice was low, almost dangerous.

‘Then tell me what you want.’

‘You.’

Life and death had hung in the balance on that single word before. Molly stopped breathing.

Sherlock reiterated, ‘I want you.’ 

‘Sherlock – you’re not listening. I’m trying to tell you I want to be a mother someday.’

‘Yes. I don’t see what the issue is.’

‘Are you seriously saying you -’

‘I think my parents would rather like the idea of being grandparents,’ he said. ‘They’re unlikely to get any children from Mycroft and Eurus. Especially Mycroft. That’s a biological dead end if ever I saw one.’

‘You’re a drug addict,’ Molly burst out, pulling away from his grip.

‘A junkie detective always looking for his next fix,’ Sherlock agreed. ‘A complete ass of a man. And yet, you chose me. Says something rather troubling about you, don’t you think?’ 

‘I didn’t _choose_ you,’ Molly snapped. ‘And I didn’t fall in love with a drug addict. I fell in love with a man who was brilliant, but _utterly_ stupid, too…’

She pushed down on the anger and tried to articulate herself.

‘I’m not scared of death,’ she said. ‘I work in a morgue, for Christ’s sake. But I deal with sudden, violent deaths. A knife in the belly, a bullet through the heart, neurotoxin in the bloodstream, axe to the head. I see them all on a daily basis. It’s the slow deaths I can’t stand, the long suffering in hospital rooms, when you _know_ it’s going to happen, but you’re not sure when. My baby sister, in a coma. My mother, with breast cancer. My father, from kidney failure, on dialysis, waiting for a donor we knew wouldn’t come. Every day you wake thinking – will today be the day? And for _years_ now, every day, I’ve felt like I’ve been watching you slowly kill yourself, and no matter how hard I try there’s not a thing I can do to stop it.' She screwed up her courage, and said, 'You can’t promise me a future and a family, Sherlock, because right now, I’m not even sure I trust you to give me one more day.’

‘Molly -’ 

‘And don’t say it will be different!’ She covered her ears with her hands. ‘You always say that! You always say you’ll get better! You promise it will all stop soon, you smile and say things will be fine, you swear you’re not in pain and you don’t feel a thing, but I see you – every time you think no-one's looking I _see…’_

There was a pause. The hall-clock ticked onwards. The urn stood impassively on the mantel.

‘Molly,’ Sherlock said. His fingers circled around her wrist and he bent forward. She thought he was going to kiss her hair, but he only touched his forehead to her temple, as if he were trying to ensure no-one else in the world could hear him but her. 'They say,’ he wet his lips, ‘that the worst thing you can do to someone is tell them your deepest, darkest secret. Mine, Molly Hooper, is not simply that I love you, as Eurus thought, but that I want to spend my life with you. I want to live – with you.’

‘I want that too,’ Molly replied in a strangled sob, turning her head so her forehead pressed to his. She closed her eyes. ‘With or without me, I just want you to live, and _value_ the life, and the love, and the gifts you’ve been given.’

‘Your death is something that happens to everyone else. Mary taught me that. But... your life is something that happens to everyone else, too. I’ve been dying for so long, and killing you in the process. Won’t you let me make up for that? Won’t you – let me share – with you…?’

Molly wrapped her arms around his neck and drew him close, kissing his cheek and jawbone. He held her tightly.

‘I’m not a perfect man,’ he went on. ‘Most of the time, I’m not even a good one. I can’t promise things won’t be difficult. But I can promise you my heart, and I can promise that it will keep beating.’

Bundled against him like a bird in the warm cage of a child’s hands, Molly trembled. 'That’s all I ask,’ she murmured.

‘So?’

He drew back and Molly shook her head fondly. ‘You already know the answer.’

‘Yes?’ he clarified, thumbing the tear from her cheek.

‘Yes.’

Sherlock relaxed with a sigh, the tension releasing bit by bit. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’s a relief actually, because while 221B’s getting rebuilt, I have nowhere else to stay.’

Molly started laughing. Her whole body heaved, and she rolled onto her back, covering her eyes with her hand. He could see the red roof of her mouth and the flash of her white teeth.

‘You bastard,’ she said with a sigh.

‘It means I’ll be extra nice to you,’ Sherlock assured her. ‘Can’t risk getting thrown out, can I?’

Molly’s laughter subsided, and her eyes softened. ‘There are times when I think you’re almost human, Sherlock Holmes.’

*

Months later, Molly appeared at the door of 221B, a wide smile on her face. She took in the sight of the reconstructed flat, back to its former glory, and her gaze swept over to Sherlock. When he locked eyes with her, he bounded over, threw his arms around her and picked her clean off the ground, spinning her around until she shrieked.

‘Well? What do you think?’ he asked, setting her down.

She replied, ‘I think it’s a perfect beginning.'


End file.
